Companions of Paradise (19 page)

There was no one in the corridor. She pushed open the heavy outer door and stepped onto the beaten earth outside.

Between rows of tents, fires crackled and smoked, each one surrounded by a cluster of native soldiers with shawls thrown over their uniforms. Hollow coughing echoed from row to row.

No Europeans were visible save Lady Sale, who had emerged, booted and bonneted, from her compound across from the officers’ quarters, a riding crop in her hand.

“What are
you
doing here?” she inquired coldly, when Mariana went up to greet her. “You should be attending to your aunt.”

Mariana raised her chin. “I wish to know what is going on. I want to see the fighting.”

“You cannot see it from here.” Lady Sale pointed upward. “I have already tried to get a view from my rooftop, with no success. I can hear the artillery plainly enough from there, but the battle itself is out of sight.”

She raked Mariana up and down with narrowed eyes. “Yesterday, with great authority, you announced that Sir Alexander Burnes had been murdered four days before. You must tell me where you got that information. Do not attempt to lie to me. If you do, I shall know it at once.”

Mariana stiffened. “I cannot say.”

“I do not like you,” Lady Sale said flatly, “but I can see that you are an unusual young woman. I will not repeat what you tell me.”

She was imperious and rude, but she did not look like a gossip.

“Very well,” Mariana replied. “I was in Kabul when Burnes was killed. The mob rushed past us, shouting that Aminullah Khan had ordered an attack on his house. It was clear to me, and everyone else, that he would be dead within the hour.”

Lady Sale raised an impatient hand. “What an utterly preposterous—”

“I was dressed,” Mariana added evenly, “as an Afghan woman.”

Lady Sale's hand froze in mid-gesture.

“And that,” Mariana concluded, “is all I am willing to say.”

Refusing to drop her eyes, she returned Lady Sale's stare.

In the end, it was Lady Sale who looked away.

“Well, then,” she said briskly, after a moment's pause, “since you are standing here, you may as well come with me.”

Without another word, she strode off at a rapid pace, past rows of tents, barracks, and horse lines, toward the south-facing side of the cantonment, home now to the shabby tents of thousands of former occupants of the Indian bazaar, who, like the soldiers, now squatted in groups, warming their hands over smoky cooking fires, babies on their laps.

After pushing her way by heaps of baggage and tethered animals and driving off a pursuing crowd of barefoot Indian children with menacing pokes of her riding crop, she pointed to the cantonment's outer rampart wall.

“We can see the native bazaar from here,” she announced.

Beside the southwest corner bastion, a substantial crack in the wall afforded a clear view of a crooked lane in the now-deserted bazaar. Lady Sale put her eye to it. A moment later, she drew back, grim satisfaction on her face.

“As I suspected,” she said, drawing back to let Mariana look, “it is full of the enemy. They have reached the very foot of our outer wall.”

Mariana peered out. On either side of the lane, double-storied buildings had been thrown together to provide shops and housing for the blacksmiths, musicians, tailors, merchants, and other camp followers who had accompanied the army from India.

At first she saw nothing, but then a white-clad figure emerged from a low door, carrying something in its arms. The figure, that of a heavily armed man, flitted across the lane and out of sight behind another door, as a musket ball from the parapet above raised a little puff of dust by his flying feet.

“Since it cannot be seen from here,” Lady Sale said matter-of-factly, “the present fighting must be taking place at the commissariat fort, which is out of sight through the trees. If they had taken the elementary step of keeping our food and medical stores inside the cantonment, none of this would have happened.” She sighed. “All the wine and beer are there as well.”

Drums beat the call to arms. A short while later, a body of red-coated European infantrymen, accompanied by a gun and six gunners, quick-marched past them on their way to the main gate.

How many of those men would return alive? Mariana shuddered.

As if in response to her question, a cart pulled in through the same gate. A score of wounded native soldiers had been flung into it, as if in the midst of battle. One of them sat against the side of the cart, sobbing hoarsely. Shiny blood covered one side of his uniform, staining his white cross belt.

When the cart turned, she saw that his left arm had been nearly severed at the shoulder.

“That reminds me,” Lady Sale said briskly, “we shall be needing bandages. I shall expect you tomorrow morning. Bring every sheet and towel you can spare. We shall need all our strength to hold out until my husband returns.”

As much as she disliked General Sale, Mariana could not wait to see that old, scar-faced veteran lead his reinforcements in through the cantonment gate.

“I KNOW everything!” Nur Rahman cried that afternoon, as Munshi Sahib removed his shoes outside Mariana's door. “There was a battle at a fort near the main road. I heard the story from a man who was there.”

“But where?” Mariana demanded. “At which fort?”

Please, let it not be the commissariat fort

“The one where the food stores are kept.” He pointed toward the southwest. “Thousands of people have come, hungry for the wheat and beans and rice, and the tea and oil and sugar. They are carrying it all away.”

Mariana dropped into her chair and ran a hand over her face. What would they do now? How would the babies from the bazaar or the small children from last evening survive a siege in freezing weather?

Her teacher entered and gestured for silence, but Nur Rahman was unstoppable. “All the nearby forts are full of gunmen,” he went on excitedly, “and so is the King's Garden. They have blocked the road to—”

“Enough!” Munshi Sahib flapped an authoritative hand toward the doorway, and turned to Mariana. “With your kind permission, Bibi,” he said gently, “Nur Rahman and I will take our leave. This is not a good day for a lesson.”

“No.” She reached out a pleading hand. “Please, stay with me.”

He looked into her face, then nodded serenely, his qaraquli hat elegant on his narrow head. “I shall stay if you wish, Bibi,” he agreed, “but today will be a holiday from the poetry of Sa'adi and Hafiz. Instead, I shall tell you a story, or rather the first part of a story, for it is too long to be told all at once.”

Wondering what lesson he wanted to impart, Mariana moved to sit on her string bed. She gestured toward her single, straight-backed chair, but her teacher remained standing as he always did, rocking a little on his stocking feet, his hands folded together behind his back. With his plain shawl draped about his shoulders in the regal way of his people, he belonged to a different world from hers.

Suddenly Mariana envied him.

“In a kingdom very far from here,” he began, his eyes roaming her small room as he spoke, as if he could see beyond its walls and into the far distance, “a king sat on the roof of his palace, and looked out over his country. He gazed over the rolling hills, the sparkling rivers, and the lush fruit gardens of his rich and varied land with joy and humility, for nowhere was there a happier or more prosperous kingdom.”

A noisy sigh issued from the corridor. Looking out, Mariana saw that Nur Rahman was listening intently.

“The king's joy,” Munshi Sahib continued, “came from the knowledge that he had brought his country to its present state of wealth and happiness. His humility came from the understanding that all his success was due to a simple bit of wisdom that he carried in his heart.”

A distant door slammed. Dittoo came into view with Adil shuffling behind him, each one carrying a pile of folded towels. Mariana motioned for them to put them down and listen.

“The king had acquired this wisdom,” her teacher went on, “when he was a little prince. One day, as he played in the palace garden, he had seen an old woman at the gate, with a gift of dried fruit for his father, the king. Seeing her basket of dried figs and apricots, almonds and pistachio nuts, the little prince had run excitedly to her, for like most children he was very fond of dried fruit.

“As he approached, the old woman turned to him, her face as luminous as the moon, her gaze as serene as the night sky.

“ ‘O prince,’ she said, ‘I bring a secret for your ears alone, if you promise to live by its wisdom for the rest of your days.’

“ ‘I promise, old mother,’ the little prince cried, dancing with excitement as he stood before her.”

Saboor would have done the same thing. Mariana pictured him running toward the radiant old woman, his curls bouncing, his eager feet thudding on the garden path.

“He forgot the dried fruit,” the munshi continued, “for more than anything in the world, the little prince loved a secret.

“ ‘Here is my secret then,’ the old woman said tenderly. ‘It is yours alone until you choose to impart it to others.’

“Bending her radiant face close to his, so that only he could hear, she murmured,
‘True happiness lies only in the faithful heart.’ ”

“True happiness,” echoed Nur Rahman.

“Proud of his important secret,” the munshi continued, “the little prince took care to remember it. He repeated it to himself before he slept that night, and for countless nights thereafter. For years, the old woman's words followed him into his dreams.

“By the time the little prince became king, the secret was so deeply engraved upon his heart that his thoughts, speech, and deeds were all colored by their wisdom. He was the most generous, kind, and noble king his people had ever known. Grateful for their good fortune, they followed their beloved king's example, and treated one another with honesty and kindness, and were rewarded with prosperity and happiness beyond imagining.

“Now the king had grown old. Sitting upon his palace roof, he thought about the future.

“He was at peace, for he knew that his beloved sons would rule the kingdom well. He had been careful to tell each little prince the old woman's wise words. Like their father, each of his sons had repeated the secret nightly for many years. Any one of them would make an estimable king.

“But it came to him that he had yet to share his knowledge with others beyond his family.

“ ‘Before I die,’ he thought, ‘I must offer this wisdom to other rulers, that they may, with the help of Allah Most Gracious, bring peace and happiness to their people.’

“He sent for his best messenger, a young boy whose name was Muballigh.

“ ‘My boy,’ he said, after Muballigh entered his room and bowed deeply, ‘I am old, and the time has come for me to send my last and most important message, not to the people of this kingdom, but to lands far and near.

“ ‘The message cannot be written, for it is carried in the heart. You, Muballigh, will carry it to the rulers of other countries. You will deliver it into the ear of each king, so that he alone may hear it. When you have delivered the message well, you may return home.’ ”

“Hai,”
Dittoo sighed from the passageway, “such a difficult work!”

“ ‘Your journey will take long,’ the king added. ‘Perhaps by the time you return, I will be gone, and one of my sons will rule in my place. But I will have died happily, knowing that my best and most trusted messenger travels through the world offering to other rulers the key to all our happiness.’

“So saying, the old king motioned Muballigh forward. He bent close to the boy's ear.

“ ‘True happiness,’ he whispered, ‘lies only in the faithful heart.’

“With a serene smile, he sent Muballigh on his way.”

The munshi unfolded his hands and straightened his shoulders. “And now, Bibi, with your kind permission, I will take your leave.”

“Will you tell us the rest of the story tomorrow?” Nur Rahman and Dittoo asked in unison, before Mariana could reply.

“We shall see,” the old man replied.

AFTER DINNER, Mariana sat on the edge of her bed, Haji Khan's rolled-up durood in her hand. She no longer looked at it as she repeated the words, but wrapping her fingers around the paper gave her a reassuring sense of the blind man's wise presence.

The oil lamp threw shadows against the wall of her room, but the shadows told her nothing of her future. She had seen no vision yet, nor had she received any knowledge, but then, this was only the seventh day.

The durood offered her something to cling to while life in the cantonment grew more perilous: a secret and significant action she could take. She would hold those verses in her heart and memory even as the Afghan insurgents closed in, knowing they could never be taken from her, even if all else were lost.

Perhaps, in the end, they would give her the answers she sought. Perhaps understanding would arrive tomorrow in a great, giddy rush. Oh, please, let the news be good. Let her learn that Hassan was coming to rescue her….

But whatever her fate, one circumstance gave her relief: that her darling, round-eyed Saboor was not with her at this terrifying time. She felt deeply for the poor women she had met in the cavalry mess, who had clearly been desperately worried for their children. She pitied the poor children, too, so subdued, all their bright energy lost.

How was little Saboor? Was he well? Was he happy? Did he go out riding with his father every day?

Did he miss his An-nah as she missed him?

She sighed as she reached to turn down her lamp. Of one thing she was certain—unlike the children from last night, Saboor was safe at Qamar Haveli.

November 7, 1841

M
aharajah Sher Singh's mercenary Governor of Peshawar smiled charmingly at the man who sat before him on the carpeted floor.

“I understand, Hassan Ali Khan,” he said in accented Urdu, “that your small son now sits each afternoon in the courtyard of your house in Lahore, receiving his grandfather's followers who come to call. Such hospitality; such opening of your family gates to strangers!”

He drew deeply on the pipe, producing a satisfying bubbling sound from its base. “You must be very proud of the child. How old is he now?”

“He is nearly four, Governor Sahib.” Hassan inclined his head toward the curious figure in front of him.

Paolo Avitabile the Neapolitan blew out a plume of tobacco smoke and smiled again, offering a glimpse of graying teeth beneath his waxed mustachios. A heavily embroidered shirt peeped from beneath the lace-covered artillery jacket he had secured with a gold brocade sash. The egret feathers in his makeshift turban waved as he nodded his satisfaction.

“And your Turkmen mare that everyone is talking about—what a magnificent animal! Such a high, proud neck, such a sure, delicate step! If old Maharajah Ranjit Singh were still alive, she would be gracing his stable by now.

“I have called you here,” the governor went on, “because I need a hundred shawls, fifty robes of state, and three dozen reasonably good horses, and you, my dear Hassan Ali Khan, are the perfect man to get them for me.”

Hassan raised his chin. “And for what purpose are these things required?”

“Let us just say that I want them for political purposes.”

“And how good are these
khelats
to be?”

“Very good. We are paying for them from the Maharajah's treasury.”

Hassan waved apologetic fingers. “Governor Sahib,” he said, “I have come to placate the British about the five thousand Punjabi soldiers we have never sent to help them, and to deal with their complaints about the Afridis who rob their caravans. That is all I have come to do. When I have finished this work, I will leave for Kabul, where I have family business.”

“Family business, you say? In Kabul, where the Englishwoman you married so hastily has gone?” Avitabile raised his eyebrows. “But they say you have divorced her.”

He shrugged at Hassan's silence. “In any case, there is nothing to the work I am giving you. Everyone knows you are acquainted with good Afghan traders. Peshawar is full of horses. They are not as good as your Akhal Tekke, but they are good enough. Freshly made shawls pour into the city from Kashmir at this time of year. The whole business will take you less than three weeks.”

“The horses and the shawls,” Hassan replied patiently, “I can provide, but the khelats are a different matter. Proper robes of honor will take time—months, perhaps—to prepare. The cloth must be woven, the embroidery designs decided upon and executed. This is work for an experienced wardrobe master, not a diplomat.”

Behind the governor's damask-covered platform, an array of Sikh officials stood listening, their fine jewels and Kashmir shawls scarcely less elaborate than those of the royal courtiers at the Lahore Citadel.

The Neapolitan's smile widened. “Nonsense.” He gestured at Hassan's yellow handwoven
choga
, covered with intricate embroidery in faded red and celadon green. “Have copies made of the coat you are wearing.”

“This coat,” Hassan said evenly, “belonged to my greatgrandfather. It may have taken a year to complete.”

“The British,” Avitabile went on smoothly, “have recently been trying to persuade the local chiefs to ally themselves with Afghanistan, and consequently with them. It is my duty to demonstrate to those chiefs the benefit of remaining with our Sikh government.”

“I would have thought,” Hassan returned, “that the minarets of Mahabat Khan's mosque were reminder enough. I understand that the ground below them is well dented from the impact of falling bodies.”

A courtier gave a giggling laugh.

Avitabile did not join him. “We must seize this moment of confusion to reinforce the loyalty of the chiefs. I always prefer,” he added pointedly, “to offer gifts and friendship first. I resort to punishment only if honest persuasion does not get me what I desire.”

“And what does ‘honest persuasion’ mean in this case, Governor Sahib?”

The Neapolitan waved a beringed hand. “It means the time-honored method of keeping hostages. I already have members of all the families I intend to deal with under lock and key here at the Citadel.”

“And of course there are the minarets,” murmured another courtier.

Hassan opened his hands. “But the chiefs need only gold to persuade them. You must know there is an uprising in Afghanistan, and that the British are losing whatever control of the country they may have had.”

“I,” Avitabile purred, “am becoming tired of this conversation. You know as well as I do that if I offer those people gold, they will expect more and more. A khelat is a different matter. No one expects to be sent a new horse and robe of state each month. And speaking of khelats, I am sure another man can be found to procure them. Of course to search for him at this critical time would be a great inconvenience for me, but I might be persuaded to do so in exchange for something from you—your lovely horse, perhaps?”

Hassan pushed away his teacup. “I am sorry, Governor Sahib, but she was a gift. As for your khelats, I will do my best to arrange for them. And now, with your kind permission—”

“I quite understand your attachment to the horse,” Avitabile replied, as Hassan stood to leave, “but please do not consider leaving for Kabul on your ‘family business’ before the work is done. And in your next letter to Lahore, please be sure to send my regards to your respected father, and a kiss to your little son. As I said earlier, you must be very proud of the child.”

LATER THAT morning, as Ghulam Ali squatted by the sitting-room door in Hassan's borrowed house, Zulmai the Afghan put down his teacup. “And you are certain,” he asked Hassan, frowning, “that the governor has threatened to take your son hostage?”

Hassan Ali Khan gestured impatiently. “The man has no heart and an insatiable greed for power. I believe he is trying to build a kingdom of his own in Peshawar, by playing the British off against the Maharajah. He does not care about the khelats. I believe he wants me to stay here and help him with his dirty work.”

Zulmai shook his head. “Avitabile's cruelty is well-known, even in Kabul,” he agreed. “Since this is so, even his most subtle threats should not be ignored.”

“For all I know,” Hassan said, “he has already sent qasids to Lahore, ordering his henchmen to storm into Qamar Haveli and snatch away my son. After all, hostage-taking is one of his games.”

Zulmai nodded. “Then you must send a message to your father, telling him of the danger to the child.”

“I have already tried to engage one of the governor's qasids, but his relay-runners, like his hostages, are now under lock and key. Only he has access to them.”

“I will carry your warning myself,” Ghulam Ali put in abruptly from his place by the door.

“No.” Hassan shook his head. “You will never get there in time. Only official relay-runners can do the work swiftly enough. But here is what you will do, Ghulam Ali,” he declared, brightening, “you will post yourself outside the Citadel's main gate and stop the first qasid you see, whether he comes out through the gate or arrives there from somewhere else. You will then bring him to me, at knifepoint, if necessary. He will start my warning on its journey to Lahore.

“Until I know that my Saboor is safe,” he added bitterly, “I must remain here, buying time, producing shawls and fripperies for that foreign son of shame.”

He turned and stared out past the sitting room's filigreed shutters.

After laying a hand over his heart to express his feelings, Ghulam Ali set out on his mission. What, he wondered, as he wrapped his shawl about him and started for the Citadel, would happen to the Englishwoman and her family, now that Hassan Ali's rescue mission had been delayed? And what of his friends, the honest, bumbling Dittoo and the dignified Yar Mohammad? What of the frail old munshi, and that fool, the dancing boy? May Allah Most Gracious keep them safe

TWO HOURS later, a slight, dark-skinned runner with a mop of dusty hair trotted uphill toward the Citadel's main entrance, a short spear in one hand, a whip in the other. The dozen small bells tied to his whip jingled with each step he took.

His head raised, his eyes on the crowded Citadel entrance, he did not see a sunburned man with a yellow beard lurch to his feet. By the time sandals pounded on the dust behind him and a long, pointed Khyber knife dug into his ribs, neither his spear nor his swift running feet could save him.

“Turn around.” His assailant's eyes were pink. He pushed the blade against the runner's slight body for emphasis. “Come with me.”

By the time the little man stumbled into the sitting room of a fine city house, his face was streaked with tears.

“I must deliver my message to the governor,” he wept, throwing himself at the feet of a bearded, elegantly dressed man. “If I do not, I will be thrown to my death like so many others. I have ten children, Sahib, ten small ones. Sahib, I beg you to let me do my duty.”

“No one is asking you to die.” The man picked up a paper that lay beside him on the carpet and wrote something diagonally across its back. “I am only asking you to send an important letter to Lahore. This man,” he added, handing the paper to the terrifying yellow-beard, “will escort you back to the Citadel. When you arrive there, you will turn over whatever letter you were already carrying to the guards at the gate. When they ask why you are not taking it inside yourself, you will tell them you are feeling very ill, and that there was cholera in the village where you ate your evening meal. They will send you away at once.

“As soon as you are out of sight of the guards, Ghulam Ali here will give you this letter,” he added, pointing to the paper in the yellow-beard's hands. “It is to be delivered into the hands of Shaikh Waliullah Karakoyia of Lahore's walled city, whose house is inside the Delhi Gate. Is that clear?”

The little runner wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Yes, Huzoor,” he mumbled.

“What is your name?” the elegant man inquired.

“It is Hari.”

The elegant man reached into his pocket. “Well, then, Hari, you must eat and drink before you leave.”

He held out a small gold coin.

The little runner stared.

“The letter concerns my small son,” the man added softly. “Since you have children of your own—”

Hari had already pocketed the coin. He put his hands together in front of him. “Your letter will reach Lahore in three days,” he decreed in the tone of a man who knew his work.

The man nodded. “Inshallah, if God is willing,” he murmured.

Three hours later, Hari the runner was trotting once again, bells jingling, along the Sarak-e-Azam, the ancient road leading from Kabul, through Peshawar and Lahore, and ultimately to Bengal, a distance of nearly two thousand miles. A mile outside Peshawar, he stopped at a ramshackle hut beneath a thorn tree and shook his whip. When another man as small and dark-skinned as himself emerged from the hut, Hari held out Hassan Ali's letter.

“This is for Lahore, brother,” he puffed.

His fellow runner nodded, took the folded paper, and without saying more, set off at an even trot along the old road, his own bell-encrusted whip jingling with every step.

As Hari sat beside a dung fire that night, enjoying his supper of a chappati and a raw onion, he estimated that the letter would take a little more than two days and three nights to reach its destination.

That, he decided, as he bit down on the gentleman's gold coin, making certain it was genuine, would be good enough time. And the coin, which was indeed real, would be fair payment for the fright he had been given, and his extra exertion in running twice in one day.

No. He smiled to himself as he hid his new riches among his clothes. It was much more than fair.

THE FOLLOWING morning, in a gracious Peshawari sitting room, the British Political Agent to the Punjab cleared his throat. “As you well know, sir,” he said evenly, in British-accented Urdu, “the Tripartite Treaty, which was signed more than
two years ago
by Lord Auckland, the Governor-General of India, by Maharajah Ranjit Singh of the Punjab, and by Shah Shuja-ul-Mulk, the King of Afghanistan,
particularly
provides for a five-thousand-strong Punjabi force to be kept ready at Peshawar, in the event they were needed for our Afghan Campaign. We have yet to see a
single
member of that force.”